


The Idiot's Guide to Writer's Block for Dummies

by Azrael



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Crack, Fluff and Angst, Humor, I'm Done Tagging Now, It came out more coherent than I expected, Jealous Sherlock, John ships Johnlock, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Alternating, Sherlock ships Johnlock too, Smut, ok, sort of, very vague and probably bullshit computer hacking, well I tried to write crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-18
Updated: 2015-06-18
Packaged: 2018-04-04 22:25:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4155267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azrael/pseuds/Azrael
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is having a massive stretch of writer's block with his blogging.  So, when Sherlock disappears for an afternoon, what does our favorite adrenaline-addicted, jumper-wearing doctor/soldier do?  Why read johnlock fanfiction of course!  And then writes some. And then becomes entirely obsessed with his new hobby and starts to freak Sherlock out.  So Sherlock snoops.  Of course he does, because he's Sherlock.  It all kind of goes downhill from there.  But then smut happens, so there's that.  Enjoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Idiot's Guide to Writer's Block for Dummies

**Author's Note:**

> So, here's the deal; I am, much like John in this story, massively blocked right now. I have WIPs all over my hardrive and new plot bunnies chasing me all over the place, but I CANNOT SEEM TO GET ANYTHING DONE!!! *sigh* Therefore, I embarked on a little exercise. I determined that I would think up a totally new idea (for me anyway) and then write it as quickly as I could all the way to the finish line. I figured I'd spend a couple hours writing 1500 words or so. Yeeeah, um, six hours over two days later and I've got almost 5500 words of completely bonkers johnlock silliness. BUT, I wrote it and finished it and so I'm going to toss it out there for you all to enjoy.
> 
> Needless to say, this is unbeta'd. It's also one of the weirdest stories I've ever written. Hopefully it did the trick and now I can get back to my real projects. Please comment and let me know what you think.

John slammed the lid of his laptop closed, gripped the glinting blond-grey strands of his hair, and hissed through his clenched teeth. He was woefully behind on publishing cases to the blog, five cases back to be precise, and every word he painstakingly typed out was complete shit. His writing was choppy and stilted, his word choices repetitive, and his backspace button was getting positively worn thin from constant use. Everything was a disaster.

The really frustrating part was that the need was still there, itching away under his skin like a sub-dermal rash that no amount of scratching would ease. His brain was ticking away with half formed ideas and vivid imagery, swirling with memory and the aftertaste of adrenaline, but the visions in his head just flat out refused to materialize on his screen. John had never realized he was a writer until meeting Sherlock. He hadn’t known that what he needed to keep his equilibrium and state of calm was an outlet for all the words and roiling emotions taking up space inside his skull. It had been years since he’d been to see Ella, but his former therapist had perhaps not been completely inept when she suggested writing as therapy. He had just needed something to write about. He had needed Sherlock.

John sat back in his chair with a huff, grimacing at the twinge of strain in his lumbar region from being crouched fruitlessly over his keyboard for the past two hours and change. As he raised his arms over his head and stretched backwards over his chair, he looked around 221B’s sitting room, noting the cold, abandoned mug of tea on the coffee table and the distinct lack of a heavy Belstaff coat and a brilliant madman to stalk around dramatically in it. He tilted his head and listened for a few seconds, but was met with nothing but silence marred only by the muffled hum of London traffic.

It looked like Sherlock wasn’t in.

Brilliant.

John quickly made himself a fresh cuppa and claimed the last of Mrs. Hudson’s lemon scones and sat down in front of his laptop again. Sherlock had been around an hour ago when he’d badgered John into making him that mug of tea he’d never drunk. The detective never left the flat for short periods of time, preferring to manipulate John into doing all the mundane little tasks necessary to keep life running smoothly. That meant that John’s flatmate would be at least another two hours, probably much more, as he whirled around the city doing God knows what and probably leaving mayhem in his wake.

Which meant John was guaranteed some alone time to indulge in his guilty pleasure.

Years ago, John had determinedly marched himself down to NSY’s tech department and charmed one of the young computer geniuses down there into teaching him how to prevent Sherlock from cyber stalking him all the time. He went back to visit with Ethan every three months or so to brush up on new techniques at thwarting Sherlock’s nosiness, much to said flatmate’s chagrin. As a result, Sherlock hadn’t been able to crack John’s password, install spyware, or access his browser history in years.

Though it wasn’t that he didn’t try.

John was vigilant about his security routines, however, and so Sherlock’s attempts had become increasingly half hearted over the years. Which meant John felt pretty safe going to his favorite “Johnlock” fansite (and how hilarious was is that they were a celebrity couple word, like Brangelina, or the now defunct TomKat), signed in under his username ‘tea42’, and went straight to his bookmarks page to see if any of the WIPs he was following had updated since the last time he’d had a chance to indulge. Thankfully, one of them, a multi-chapter epic that featured Sherlock as a pirate captain and John as a male sea nymph that was absolutely delicious in its ridiculousness, had just had a new chapter posted. Fifteen minutes later, fighting off the urge to fan himself after reading a very detailed underwater sex scene and ignoring his half erection, John navigated back to the main page and began to peruse the new stories that had been posted over the past two weeks. There were quite a lot. John sipped his tea, took a large bite of his scone, and dove in.

Another hour later, and John had read two adorable offerings depicting the two of them as blushing teenagers and bookmarked a promising work in progress that featured John as a secret serial killer and Sherlock as obliviously smitten. He then wandered over to the chat page to see what the latest conspiracy theories and speculations on their imaginary love story were. He got a good chuckle out of the poster who was insisting she’d seen them walking down the street in her small town in Nebraska holding hands and gazing adoringly at each other (John had never been to Nebraska and he was fairly certain Sherlock never had either due to the fact that he’d never heard the detective complain about it), and then a small, two sentence post caught his eye and changed everything.

_“Do you know what I would love? If John, who we all know is a writer, stumbled across this place, saw the insanity here, and then proceeded to become the biggest secret Johnlocker ever!”_

John laughed until tears streamed down his face and his sides ached. He had just wound down to little hiccupping snorfles of mirth when he read it again and cocked his head in thought.

John wasn’t huge on introspection, in fact he avoided it like the plague, but after the fiasco of Mary and the miscarriage and his subsequent divorce and return to Baker Street, he had had to do a little navel gazing just to get back to functional. Now, eighteen months later, sitting in his quiet flat reading amateur erotica about himself and his flatmate, he was ready to admit that he was absolutely screwed.

It wasn’t that he wasn’t aware that he’d love to get Sherlock naked, sweaty, and horizontal, because, really, see the referenced amateur porn he read like it was necessary to survival. I wasn’t that he wasn’t aware that he was stupidly in love with the nutter and had been since the very first night. It was that he knew that no matter how he felt about Sherlock there was absolutely no chance of it coming to fruition. John could tie himself naked, gagged, and spread-eagled on Sherlock’s bed and the detective would just look at him with panicky eyes, quickly untie him without touching skin or looking at any part of John’s body he didn’t have to, and then flee the room to commence deleting the entire experience. He knew this because of one true, ironclad fact.

Sherlock was straight.

John wasn’t an idiot and he had known Sherlock for over half a decade. There had been Irene and Janine of course, though yes the argument could be made that both women only received the detective’s attention in the course of the Work, but John knew better. Sherlock, as much as he hated to admit it, was a healthy, red blooded male in the prime of his life. He had needs and desires just like any other man and when the pressure became too much, about every three or four months or so, John had to suffer through Sherlock bathing, dressing, and disappearing in a cloud of expensive cologne at precisely 10 o’clock on a Saturday night and returning languorous and disheveled sometime after dawn and smelling of expensive perfume instead. John, an early riser through nature and army training, was usually at the kitchen table with his tea and breakfast to witness these arrivals and be the recipient of Sherlock’s satisfied sleepy-eyed smile before watching his best friend stroll into the first floor bedroom and firmly shut the door. Sherlock would sleep for a good ten hours after these evenings on the town, which was good, because it gave John a chance to staunch the bleeding and shore up his walls.

Sherlock would never be his, so John indulged in his harmless little hobby of reading fanfiction about all the ways and universes they could be together. It was soothing to him, to think that maybe, somewhere, there was a John Watson who was allowed to touch and kiss and love a Sherlock Holmes to distraction. Still, it wasn’t quite enough, and was, in fact, becoming les every time he found himself surfing the internet for new stories. Maybe…

Maybe this poster was right and it was time to take the plunge. After all, as fun as all the various plotlines were, they weren’t quite right. The authors didn’t actually know either of them, and so the dialogue and characterizations were never exactly realistic enough to let John forget completely. So maybe it was time he did something about that.

He opened a blank document, closed his eyes, and conjured an image of Sherlock’s sleepy just-got-laid grin. A thousand ideas exploded in his mind and he picked one at random.

He opened his eyes and began to type.

/////////////

Sherlock understood fear and respected it. Fear was a survival instinct bred into humans at a ribonucleic level after all. It was the emotion that told you ‘why yes, a knife wielding maniac is in fact a threat you idiot, so fucking DUCK!!!’ It was what brought the lovely flood of adrenaline that got the heart pumping and crystallized thought processes during the fight or flight response. Sherlock knew fear and he kind of loved it, just that little edge of ‘shit, I might not make it this time, what a thrill!’ that he and John chased constantly, the only thing to keep the boredom away.

Panic on the other hand….

Panic was completely useless. It was fear distilled and strengthened a hundred fold. Panic paralyzed and brought rational thought to a grinding halt. Panic was the enemy.

Sherlock was panicking.

John was acting strange, and had been odd for about four months now. It was almost exactly two years since the miscarriage and the implosion of John’s marriage and it was obvious that John had assimilated the trauma and moved on. To be fair, he seemed to have dealt with the bulk of his anger and disappointment after the first six months, and now only really seemed affected when happening upon babies and small children in public. Sherlock felt very secure in surmising that John, though occasionally wistful for the daughter he never had a chance to know, very rarely thought of his ex-wife at all. John also, to Sherlock’s great relief, seemed to have zero interest in dating at all. Sherlock really wasn’t sure he would survive if John were to select another wife from the general populace. With his luck, his best friend would fall for a quiet little research scientist who dabbled in biochemical warfare or something. Sherlock literally had nightmares about it.

About five months ago, John had been suffering from a rather serious bout of writer’s block. It happened occasionally, and Sherlock rarely had to do more than live through a few days of snappishness and melodramatic sighing and slamming of laptops, but this streak had gone on for a good month and Sherlock had been starting to plan an intervention when John had just snapped out of it.

Just like that.

It had been an ordinary Thursday afternoon, just after lunch, and John had been banging away at his keyboard and then abusing his back space button while glaring daggers at his laptop screen and Sherlock had simply fled. He’d abandoned his lovely John-made tea, snatched up his coat and scarf, and very bravely run away to walk the city and update his mental map before going to harass Molly at Bart’s. When he’d returned some six hours later, it was to find a plain, but delicious roast chicken dinner, a table set for two, and a smiling and relaxed flatmate uncorking a chilled bottle of pinot grigio. Sherlock had refused to look a gift horse in the mouth and proceeded to spend a very pleasant evening in with his best friend.

Then the weirdness set in.

John was, quite simply, always bloody writing. The question was what was he writing? They were averaging about two cases a week and about three NSY cases a month, so they were busy and there was plenty of material for the blog. However, John had never written up every single case, not even in the very beginning of their friendship. There were just too many and, despite Sherlock’s best efforts, only a handful of them could be considered interesting enough for public consumption. Even still, despite the near constant work and John’s new surgical attachment to his laptop, Sherlock estimated that John was consistently backlogged by two blog-worthy cases at any given time.

It didn’t make sense.

Then there was the staring.

Sherlock would surface from looking into his microscope to find John’s navy gaze intent on the minute twitches of his hand as he turned the instrument dials. He would look up from playing his violin, suddenly startled by a camera flash to find John grinning down at his phone and then turning and wandering up the stairs to his room without a word of explanation. Once, Sherlock had honest to God jumped when John’s warm fingers had grabbed the back of the collar of his favorite aubergine shirt for what seemed to be the express purpose of checking the designer label over which he’d snorted derisively.

And always, always there was that fucking laptop; laughing at him.

It was maddening.

Sherlock felt perfectly justified in wishing death on that annoying little techhead at the Met (Eli? Evan?) and his pathetic crush on an oblivious John. If it weren’t for that completely average geek, John would never have picked up the skills necessary to keep Sherlock from accessing said laptop. The little brat had taught John about high security passwords, permanently clearing browser caches, and educated him on the highest quality security programs. Now, Sherlock had to get creative if he wanted to keep tabs on John’s computer, which was time consuming and tedious, but needs must.

That was how Sherlock found himself drinking a bottomless cup of coffee in a nearly deserted café, booting up his favorite laptop, and connecting his personal hotspot. He was in the corner, back to the wall and out of range of any reflective surfaces. He quickly tapped into the little spy camera he’d secreted in the right eye socket of the skull and settled in to wait. Not even twenty minutes later, John strode into the frame with a steaming cup of tea and his laptop under his arm. Sherlock leaned forward, waited to make sure John actually logged onto his computer, and then shut down the camera feed. It had done its job and Sherlock didn’t need the server coming over to refresh his cup and then getting a peek at what was admittedly a pretty creepy live shot of the back of John’s head.

Sherlock made quick work of hacking into John’s computer and within minutes Sherlock was looking at a mirrored image of John’s screen.

His eyes scanned quickly, then widened as his mouth dropped open and he sagged back in his chair in disbelief.

John was reading porn. Gay porn. Amateur written gay porn. John was reading amateur written gay porn starring himself and Sherlock.

Sherlock could actually feel his pulse fluttering in his neck.

Suddenly, the view on the screen changed and a word document popped up. The pages quickly scrolled by and new words began to appear at the bottom of the last one. Sherlock watched in a daze over the next hour as his flatmate wrote an incredibly detailed bedroom scene between the two of them. It was actually very, um, well, let’s just say that Sherlock was not unaffected by John’s prose. No, not unaffected at all and really very grateful for the emptiness of the café and the shadows in his corner, because, wow, but John had put some thought into this.

Sherlock snapped out of his stupor when the screen changed again and he was once again looking at the porn site. John logged into an account under the user name ‘tea42’ and then, oh, oh no, he wouldn’t, would he?

He did.

Sherlock felt a little ill as he saw the very cheerful ‘successfully posted!’ message come up. He then cut his connection to John’s computer, slammed back his lukewarm coffee, breathed deeply, and opened his browser.

He navigated back to John’s porn site page and proceeded to dive headfirst down the rabbit hole.

He didn’t crawl out again for three hours.

/////////////

Sherlock was being weird. Well, weirder than usual and John had had just about enough of it. He was twitchy as a caffeinated squirrel around the flat and distant when out and about. The genius hadn’t deigned to eat a meal with John in about two weeks, though he was eating as evidenced by the fact that John had to go to Tesco’s twice a week these days instead of just the usual one. It was nice in that Sherlock didn’t look quite so much like a starving wolf and more like a sleek greyhound, but John just couldn’t really get past the suspicion that Sherlock was actually _stress eating._ It was alarming.

So John did what any self respecting repressed British male would and decamped to the pub to very determinedly ignore all the swirling emotion in his flat.

It was on one of these nights that John met Eric.

He had been sitting at the bar, watching a cricket game and wondering how he had managed to live in England all his life without learning the rules through osmosis when a tall, very fit, red headed bloke had sat down on the stool next to him. He’d introduced himself as Eric, was about five years younger than John, and worked for the city as a civil engineer. He was charming in a mildly geeky way, looking at John with soft brown eyes and wearing the hell out of a pair of jeans. John had very willingly allowed himself to be charmed and the two had left the bar after about two hours to go to Eric’s place since he lived alone.

Eric and John had turned out to be a very good match regarding their hedonistic approaches to passion and sensuality, and John had left after breakfast the next day with a mild yet sprightly limp and a grin on his face. He had Eric’s number, a drinks date planned for two days away, and the warm glow in his chest of the newly smitten.

He’d arrived at home, fairly skipping up two flights of stairs and completely missed the frozen and horrified rictus on Sherlock’s face as the detective noted John’s awkward gait and blissed out smile. He didn’t see that rumpled rug where his flatmate had been pacing. He failed to notice the long cold tea service and the open laptop sitting on the coffee table and glowingly showing his latest published fanfiction.

No, he was too busy burrowing sleepily into his bed and succumbing to a well deserved rest with a happy hum to witness Sherlock falling heavily down in his chair and burying his face in his hands in despair.

/////////////

It was a completely unacceptable state of affairs. John’s little dalliance had been going on for an unprecedented fourteen weeks now, with a minimum of two dates and a maximum of four a week. Sherlock hadn’t met this Eric yet, but he loathed him with a fiery passion born of jealousy and terror.

John was happy.

John was incandescently happy while in a relationship with a man.

John was incandescently happy while in a relationship with a man _who was not Sherlock._

Sherlock was in agony, absolute excruciating pain, because the worst part of this entire debacle?

John had stopped writing his stories.

Oh, he was still writing, but these days it was only blog posts about their cases. John was no longer spending countless hours detailing the many sexual exploits of Johnlock and then throwing them out into the world to rave reviews. Sherlock checked the website every day, sometimes several times a day, but nothing. In fact, John hadn’t even responded to any comments on his fanfictions in weeks. Sherlock was absolutely beside himself with panic and rage. All the signs were there and Sherlock wanted to retch every time John’s text alert went off and his blogger got that sappy little smile on his face.

It was obvious, so very obvious, that John was…he was in the process of…John was….

John was falling in love.

Which meant whatever John had been feeling for Sherlock, whether it had been infatuation, curiosity, or idle lust, it was now gone.

Sherlock now understood every wronged lover, every jealous suitor, and every scorned spouse who had ever committed murder. He understood completely, because Sherlock had loved and pined for John for half a decade. He had shoved it down, even going so far as to sleep with only women when the stress of wanting John had gotten too much, and he had done it because John had been so vehement about insisting that he was not gay. Stupidly, he had taken the doctor at his word, foolishly forgetting that there was a whole spectrum of possible sexualities John could choose from and still not identify as gay.

God, he was an idiot.

That first night, that very first dinner at Angelo’s, when John had awkwardly asked after Sherlock’s sexuality, well, looking back, Sherlock really should have lunged across the table and devoured his new flatmate right then and there. But he hadn’t known, how could he have known? How could he have known how vital John would become to him, how infinitely precious? Then he’d blown it again, dithered and stalled and agonized once he had discovered John’s little hobby. He should have left that café immediately, gone home, and tackled John into bed as soon as he’d crossed the threshold.

Instead he’d been sick with indecision over whether to risk it and now he’d lost.

Now, John had Eric.

Now, John was kissing and touching and _fucking_ someone who wasn’t Sherlock.

Now, John was falling in love with someone else, might already be there.

Suddenly, Sherlock sat up and then rolled gracefully to his feet and began to pace feverishly. Enough of this maudlin self pity! He was Sherlock bloody Holmes and he didn’t lose. He kicked and screamed and fought himself bloody, but he always came out on top, and no piddling little civil servant two years his junior was going to take away his most special person.

Sherlock threw himself into his chair in a billow of silk and began to plot.

He was going to win John Watson’s heart if it killed him.

/////////////

John dragged himself up the stairs to his flat, weighed down with exhaustion and the guilt of having just parted from a distraught significant other. Eric was a lovely person, but he just wasn’t right. He’d been a great distraction for a bit, but the truth was, he was simply too tame. John was as fond as the next bloke of romantic dinners, nights at the cinema, and the occasional evening spent playing billiards in a noisy pub. He was certainly a fan of getting enthusiastically laid on a very regular basis. However, there just wasn’t a spark there and so today, when he’d met up with Eric for lunch, he’d ended it.

Eric hadn’t taken it well.

The younger man had looked bewildered and asked for an explanation. When John had tried to explain that they just weren’t going to be a good fit in the long run, Eric had started to plead for a second chance. John had tried to be gentle, but to no avail. Eric had actually, to John’s complete horror, broken down into quiet tears and begged for John to reconsider because Eric loved him. John had felt the blood drain from his face in a stricken expression and Eric had sat back, wiped his tears on his napkin, and very calmly gathered up the messenger bag he was never without and walked away without another word.

John had sat there for a moment before pulling out his phone and deleting Eric’s number from his contacts list.

Then he’d paid the check and gone back to work.

Now, he hung up his jacket and toed off his shoes, glancing around the empty living room and kitchen before cocking his head to listen for the shower. He didn’t hear the telltale hush of water so he peered down the hall and made note of the closed door to Sherlock’s bedroom. Well then, the genius must be sleeping, good for him. Sherlock had been acting as jumpy as a scalded cat the last few weeks and John was glad he was finally getting some rest.

He padded across the floor and up the second staircase, making sure to avoid the three squeaky steps, and entered his bedroom.

He stopped short at what he saw, which was eight manila folders arranged in two neat rows on the coverlet of his bed.

He sidestepped to his bedside table to plug in his phone and put down his wallet before leaning over to flip open the first file and see what was hiding inside.

Then he broke out in a cold sweat, frantically opened the other seven folders, and closed his eyes in an attempt to calm himself and control his breathing.

Right there, spread out on his bed, were printed out copies of his eight erotic johnlock stories, which meant that Sherlock knew. The git knew, must have found a way to snoop after all, and then thrown it all in his face.

Suddenly, John felt a presence at his back and spun around to see Sherlock standing there, posture perfect and dressed in sleep clothes and a dressing gown, and staring at John with stoic and fathomless eyes. John felt his shoulders sag and his back curl in on itself.

“Right, yeah, so, I’ll be out by the end of the week. I can crash with, I don’t know, Stamford or maybe Greg until I find a new place. You can just, shit, delete me or whatever and-MMPH!!!!”

John had a split second to see blazing eyes and a sneer twisting perfectly formed lips before Sherlock was on him and shoving his tongue nearly down his throat. John was shocked, but he was also no fool, and after a bare second to regain his equilibrium, he reached out for handfuls of blue silk and pulled the genius currently snogging the living daylights out of him impossibly closer.

Sherlock growled, John moaned, they stumbled towards the bed attached at the mouth and tearing at clothing. In two minutes flat they were bouncing down on John’s bed fully naked and grinding furiously against each other. Sherlock was on top, John’s thighs spread wide to accommodate him, and the rolling and shifting of their bodies caused a truly obscene soundtrack of skin on skin to accompany the frankly animalistic noises being ripped out of their throats. Sherlock grabbed John’s chin, pushed it up and latched on to the doctor’s strong neck. He bit down, wrenching a pleasured yell from the man underneath him, and then proceeded to leave the biggest, darkest lovebite he could manage just below the hinge of John’s jaw.

He licked up over John’s Adam’s apple, nipped at his bottom lip, and then drove his tongue in the gasping mouth to curl the muscle along John’s hard palate and elicit a drawn out shiver from his new lover. His voice was gravel and sin when he started to speak.

“You’re going to get rid of that idiot you’ve been fucking. You’re going to move out of this room and into my bedroom down stairs. You are going to promise me that there will be no one else for the rest of our lives. Do you understand me my John?”

John arched his back, rolling his hips and relishing the almost pained grimace on Sherlock’s glowering face. Then he darted his head up, gave his madman a hard kiss, and spoke breathlessly against Sherlock’s right ear.

“He’s already gone, yes, I’ve always been and always will be yours, and I love you too.”

Sherlock reared back and licked into John’s mouth with all the fervor of a starving man at a banquet.

“John, my John, I love you, I will always love you, and right now I’m going to fuck you mindless until you come all over me and then can’t walk straight for a week. Would you like that my John?”

John keened and writhed while Sherlock grinned fiercely.

“Oh, _God,_ yes!”

Sherlock reached out one long arm to the bedside drawer, having long ago determined where John kept his lube, and extracted the half empty bottle of slick. He then sat back, spreading John wide with his knees and slicked up his first two fingers. He circled John’s winking hole while John’s thighs trembled, softening the muscle before inserting his first finger in. John quickly adjusted and Sherlock pushed in the second, pumping and scissoring while John shifted his hips in a bid to get more.

They were both gleaming with sweat, their pricks standing hard and proud and jutting out from their bodies aggressively. Sherlock removed his fingers while John whined and gasped and then slicked up his cock and guided himself into John’s quivering body. Once he’d bottomed out, he grit his teeth until the urge to come immediately had passed before pulling back and snapping his hips forward with a grunt. John let out a loud ‘Hah!’ sound so Sherlock did it again, then again, again, again.

The two of them moved together in perfect synchronicity, giving to and taking from each other as they had always done. The sounds of flesh into flesh mingled with their cries of ecstasy and their words of love and lust grunted at each other in voices gone dark and hoarse.

“Oh, God, my John, touch yourself, come with me, now, do it now!”

Sherlock’s hips sped up impossibly faster as John’s hand became a blur over his deeply red cock. Sherlock’s head was bowed, sweat dripping from his curls onto John’s chest, the muscles of his body standing out in sharp relief as he pounded them both to oblivion. John’s eyes were rolling back, barely a sliver of navy able to be seen under fluttering eyelashes as he chased his release.

And then, from one second to the next, they were over the edge. John’s back arched sharply and he gave a high wail as ribbons of come burst from his straining prick. Sherlock’s hips jerked as his head snapped back, and he yelled loudly in claiming as his body emptied into John’s.

The both of them collapsed back in a heap of soaking, shaking limbs and heaving chests, their eyes dazed and heads lolling together on the sweat drenched pillow. John was the first to find his voice.

“So, I take it you liked my stories then?”

Sherlock huffed a near silent laugh, too spent and exhausted to do more than that.

“Yes, John, I liked them very much. I especially liked the one where, what is it called? An Alpha/Omega AU, yes?”

John laughed half in pride and half in embarrassment.

“Yeah, well, what can I say, you’d make a hell of an Alpha. You can bite my neck and fuck me raw anytime you like.”

He grinned cheekily at his lover and Sherlock playfully nipped his neck before falling heavily to the side.

“You may regret that offer my John, when I haven’t let you leave the flat for a month and you have to lie on your front on the sofa to watch terrible telly.”

John chuckled.

“I think I’ll manage to suffer through.”

They grinned at each other, covered in their bodily fluids, stupidly in love, satisfied with the world, and surrounded by the scattered pages of John’s stories.

“Ow, dammit!”

“What’s the matter?”

“I think I have a paper cut on my arse!”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [写作不应期的傻瓜指南](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4189179) by [LoveBBCSH](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoveBBCSH/pseuds/LoveBBCSH)




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